


Through a Looking Glass

by exmanhater



Series: This Sort of Impossible Life [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Femininity, Femslash, Skincare, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater
Summary: Quentin Coldwater learns magic, faces her fears, and gets a facial (not in that order).





	Through a Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to rivers_bend for the excellent beta help!
> 
> Set in an alternate season one, this is a love letter to being a girl, and being a queer girl, and also Eliot Waugh's fingers. I hope you enjoy.

Eliot Waugh is beautiful. Quentin thinks that maybe if Eliot's picture was in a magazine next to models, her strong features might not seem quite so beautiful in comparison if you were judging by modern standards, but in her presence, it's impossible to not be struck by her face, her body, the elegance she exudes with every movement. She's taller than everyone but never looks gangly, and her clothes are always what Quentin's mom would call "an outfit, like you wore it on purpose," which is something Quentin has never quite managed (yet another item on the long list of ways she's disappointed her mother). Eliot's eyes are always amused and calculating, framed by perfectly shaped eyebrows and makeup that must be applied with magical assistance because how else would it always be so sharp, even at three in the morning at a Physical Kids party?

It's different than Margo's beauty, is what Quentin is trying to get at, because while they both make her stutter and feel like a very small uninteresting mouse sometimes in comparison, only Eliot literally takes her breath away. Margo's beauty is understandable, if unattainable. Eliot's seems like the kind of mystery Quentin will never solve.

She doesn't understand why they seem to like her. Girls like that, girls who know how to dress and make friends and be effortlessly cool, never like her. She'd never even had a friend who was a girl until Julian starting dating Jamie and even then, Jamie wasn't the kind of cool that Eliot and Margo are.

When Eliot had introduced her to Margo, she'd felt a little bit like she was taking a test she hadn't studied for and was sure to fail. It was more nerve-wracking than the Brakebills entrance exam, because for this test she knew the stakes—Eliot would definitely lose whatever interest she had in Quentin if Margo didn't approve. Quentin wore jeans on a good day, leggings on most days, and almost always had a hoodie on top. Eliot's crisp blouses and vests, and slim cigarette pants, or on special occasions, tiny skirts, made so much more sense next to Margo's similarly curated clothes. Margo's were more traditionally feminine, somehow, despite being mostly the same sorts of pieces. But they fit together in a way that Quentin herself would never fit with either of them and she'd known that immediately.

"Oh, I see," Margo had said, having a simultaneous wordless conversation with Eliot that Quentin watched in fascination as their eyebrows appeared to do all the work. Then Margo had smirked at Eliot and added: "But she's not that cute."

"It's, um, nice to meet you?" Quentin had said, when it appeared that no one else was going to say anything, or tell her what the proper response to _that_ was.

Margo had nodded, and gently brushed Quentin's cheek with her fist. "You'll do, kiddo," she'd said, and Eliot had beamed proudly, and that had apparently been that.

They take her under their wings. Magic seems much easier with Eliot and Margo there to laugh at her until she fights back and learns something (usually Margo) and ask the questions she needs to think about to find the answer on her own (usually Eliot). Quentin only occasionally catches sight of herself next to Margo and Eliot, which is good, because if she thinks about it for too long, she goes back to wondering why they picked her, of all people. She's nothing special to look at, and her magic is mediocre at best.

Whatever the reason, she's grateful, and it becomes more pronounced after she moves into the Physical Kids' Cottage.

"It's self-care night," Margo declares one evening, apparently having decided that she's done listening to Quentin worry about her classes. She pushes herself off the couch and tugs Quentin up with her. "This one has never had a manicure, and we're fixing that."

"I've—I've painted my nails," Quentin says, because she has. She had been ten and she hadn't liked it, but she has done it before. She glances nervously at Eliot, because – well, because she _has_ painted her nails and she doesn't want Eliot to think she hasn't.

Eliot unfolds her long limbs from the chair she's been lounging in and smiles at Quentin. "Not like this, honey," she says, and takes Quentin's other arm in hers. Quentin surrenders and lets them tug her upstairs. She feels like she's about to get a glance into the kind of femininity she's never been able to access by herself and she's curious.

Upstairs, Margo pushes her inside the private bathroom attached to her room, which Quentin is extremely jealous about and has never been allowed inside before. It seems bigger than the space it appears to take up from the outside, and Quentin opens her mouth to ask about what spell Margo used, but before she can say anything Eliot is sweeping in behind them. She sits down on the oversized armchair—Margo's bathroom has an _armchair_ —and tugs Quentin down next to her.

"We should do her face, too," Eliot says, and Margo hmms in response, already digging through one of the drawers in her vanity.

Quentin tries not to squirm in the chair. "Do what to my face?" she asks, worried, because she hates the feel of makeup, and then Eliot starts playing with her hair and she loses the plot a little.

"Not makeup," Eliot clarifies, and Quentin has to think about that for a minute before it makes sense. Eliot's long fingers are still running through her hair and she's sure her face is red.

"You're perfect just the way you are, little Q," Eliot continues, and is apparently done with evaluating her hair because she takes her hands away. Quentin tries not to lean in and keep the touch going. "This isn't a makeover, it's an intervention to make sure you don't stress yourself into an early heart attack."

Quentin flushes even redder, but Eliot is looking at Margo and Quentin hopes to god she hasn't noticed.

"That means a facial," Margo says, smirking at Eliot. "And not the kind I usually talk about, don't worry."

Eliot pats Quentin on the shoulder. "That's the advanced class, which Margo will have to teach at a later date. I don't like what semen does to my skin."

This conversation does nothing to help Quentin relax, but telling them that doesn't seem like it would do anything, so she just lets herself enjoy the warmth of Eliot by her side.

Margo puts an alarmingly high number of bottles and tubes on her vanity, absorbed in checking the labels and putting anything that doesn't meet with her approval back into a drawer. Quentin watches, feeling herself starting to get flustered in the bad way. She likes the way Margo and Eliot usually make her feel: off-kilter, but safe. This has started to feel unsafe, the kind of thing she doesn't know anything about that makes her anxiety spike.

Eliot's warm legs next to hers only help a little, and Quentin starts breathing very carefully.

"Q, what happened?" Eliot's concerned voice breaks through the haze of Quentin's worry.

When Quentin doesn't reply, Eliot gets up and kneels in front of Quentin, tipping her face up. "Too much?"

Quentin shakes her head. It's not—it's not too much, really, it's just that she's really feeling her inadequate…everything, switching over from worrying about schoolwork to worrying about that instead. Eliot's eyes don't look judgmental, though, just concerned, and something inside Quentin's chest starts to relax.

Margo turns around and doesn't take long to figure out the situation. She takes two steps and joins Eliot in front of the armchair.

"We didn't ask," Margo says, "because usually what works best for you is to just pull you along so you're not thinking about it too much. But honey, what would help you relax? We don't need to do your nails or give you a facial. You can just watch?"

Eliot nods. "My cuticles are in dreadful shape, frankly. Margo can fix them and you can watch."

They both let the silence happen, watching her carefully. Quentin breathes and waits with them, focusing on Eliot's hand on her knee rubbing lightly, Margo's huge eyes showing gentleness Quentin doesn't usually see from her. They care. She doesn't have to know why to know that it's true. She's safe.

Quentin finds her voice and shakes her head again as well for emphasis. "No, I want to know what it feels like," she says, chin turning up with a stubborn tilt. "I'm fine, I promise."

Margo stands up and goes back to organizing her selections on the vanity counter. Eliot's expression goes back to its usual state, a veneer of calm. Quentin misses the concern, but she knows it's a gift that she even gets to see Eliot looking anything other than aloof at all. Gifts are to be accepted and appreciated when they happen, but they're not something she can demand to have all the time.

Eliot takes a hot, damp washcloth and sits back down next to Quentin. She floats a hairband from the vanity and pulls Quentin's hair into a loose ponytail, tugging on the end and grinning at Quentin when she's finished.

"Facial time," she says, and carefully presses the cloth around Quentin's entire face. The steam and warmth make Quentin relax even further into the chair. The cloth is some kind of velvety micro-fiber that feels amazing and nothing at all like a regular washcloth.

"What do you normally talk about during a facial?" Quentin asks, once Eliot takes the cloth away. Margo trades places with Eliot and starts spreading some kind of cool goop on Quentin's face. It's nice, after the hot cloth.

"Boys," Margo says, at the same time that Eliot says "girls, obviously."

They look at each other and laugh, and then Margo turns back to Quentin. "Both," she concedes. "As appropriate."

"Oh," Quentin says, and is glad that the goop on her face seems thick enough to hide any blushing she might be doing. She knew Eliot was queer already; it wasn't something you could miss if you'd known Eliot for long (or at all, really). She wore her femininity and her queer identity together like asshole-repelling armor. Quentin was slightly jealous of that. But she'd wondered about Margo, and about Eliot and Margo, and had never dared to ask before.

"So you're not—together?" she says, almost without meaning to, and then accidentally tastes some of the face goop. It's disgusting.

"What the fuck," Eliot says, and raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at Quentin from where she's been sorting through bottles of nail polish.

"Oh, come on, El, it's a fair question," Margo says. "We're a matched set and we do cuddle a lot. Romantically, no, we're not together," she tells Quentin. "But I have been known to be flexible before, if the right girl comes along."

Eliot laughs. "You mean the right dildo," she says, but it's fond and Margo doesn't seem upset.

"Fair." Margo shrugs and goes to wash the goop off her fingers. "What about you, Q?" she asks over her shoulder. "Got your eye on anyone?"

Quentin swallows, careful not to let any of the goop get inside her mouth this time. "I'm just focusing on magic," she says, which isn't a lie, not really. She's trying to just focus on magic, anyway.

Eliot grabs a stool and sits down in front of Quentin, grabbing one of her feet with a hot washcloth and placing it in her lap over another towel. Quentin avoids meeting her eyes.

"What about that guy," Margo says, bringing another cloth over to start wiping off the goop on Quentin's face. Quentin's starting to wonder if Margo has a magical drawer that produces washcloths whenever opened. "Aaron? Alan? Oh, Adam!"

"The nervous blond Adonis," Eliot says, quirking an eyebrow at Quentin as she puts away the washcloth and starts painting something clear onto Quentin's toenails. She's doing it with magic instead of her hands, the show-off. "You could definitely get that if you wanted."

"I don't," Quentin starts, but that's sort of a lie, because Adam does seem to like her, at least more than he likes anyone else at Brakebills, and he's sharply witty and smart and sometimes when they're studying alone he's even funny. But she doesn't want to date him, not really. "I mean it, I want to focus on magic, not people."

"You should probably tell him that," Eliot says lightly, but Quentin doesn't agree. Adam is just as focused on magic as she is; maybe even more. She's pretty sure she can just be his friend.

"He knows," she says, garbled through the cloth Margo is using to clean her face. "We have the same priorities, and dating isn't in them."

"You can have both," Margo says, and goes to rinse the cloth again, or grab a new one. Quentin still isn't sure how many cloths there actually are. "It's not like magic and dating are mutually incompatible."

"I dated in college," Quentin offers as proof. "And all it got me was a B in both the semesters when I tried it. I thought the second time it would be better because Tara was really smart and academic, but—"

"Tara?" Margo interrupts. She's making some kind of _look_ at Eliot that Quentin can't figure out. "Q, are you flexible, too?"

"Uh, sure? I'm bisexual? I thought you knew that." Quentin refuses to look at either of them. Had they really not known? She'd been pretty sure her crush on Eliot was visible from space, and honestly, she had a proximity terror-crush on Margo, too. When she still roomed with Penny, their most frequent communication was Penny yelling "I don't care what you rub one out to on your own time, Coldwater, but I'm fucking sick of hearing about Waugh's damn fingers and how much you want to suck them so work on your goddamn wards!" and Quentin mumbling "I'm trying, you utter dick," and failing entirely to stop thinking about Eliot's hands.

But apparently Eliot and Margo hadn't received that memo.

"No," Margo says slowly, still staring at Eliot. "We did not know that."

"Welcome to queer club," Eliot says breezily, finally looking up from Quentin's toes. "We have cocktails and crippling anxiety." Her smile is real, but there's something else in her eyes that Quentin doesn't know how to interpret.

"Thanks?" Quentin goes to touch her cheek and see if it feels any different after the goop because she seriously cannot devote any brainpower to trying to figure out the emotional atmosphere of the room and how it has changed, but Eliot catches her hand before she can reach.

"No touching," Eliot says. "Not until we're all done."

"There's more?" she asks, and they both laugh at her. The strange mood breaks, and Quentin breathes a little easier.

"At least three more steps," Margo says, and nudges Eliot to get up from the stool. Quentin's toenails are shiny with some kind of clear coat of polish, and she's pretty sure there are more steps to be had with her feet as well.

"I'll do the color on her toes," Margo tells Eliot. "I'm better at detail." She settles on the stool with what looks like a paintbrush and three different bottles of nail polish and a bunch of wedge-things Quentin thinks are sponges of some kind. She considers offering an opinion on the colors, but in the end, she really doesn't care.

Eliot grabs a bottle from the vanity and sits next to Quentin again. Her long fingers gently swipe liquid over Quentin's face, dabbing under her eyes and rubbing light circles over the rest of her skin. It's slightly hypnotic, watching Eliot's face twist in concentration, feeling the tension she always carries in her jaw start to dissipate. That it's _Eliot's_ hands doesn't really help with the relaxation part, but once she closes her eyes and can't see them anymore, it gets better.

"This isn't terrible," Quentin says, once Eliot finishes, and takes it graciously when Margo and Eliot laugh at her again.

When they're all finished with everything (there were definitely more than three steps left), Quentin has bi pride flag toenails, purple fingernails and an extremely moisturized face, and more importantly, the ability to admit that life isn't completely awful. She curls up in the armchair once Margo says her nails are dry enough and watches as Margo does Eliot's nails next.

Eliot's hands are so beautiful, she thinks muzzily, watching each long finger as Eliot holds them still for Margo. Before long, she's asleep.

+++

She wakes up in her own bed the next morning, a magical note shimmering in the air above her pillow next to her head.

_Good news, you're tiny and very easy to carry! Thanks for girls' night. <3 -El_

The note disappears in a flash once she's read it. Quentin smiles and then resolutely doesn't think about it while she does the rest of her homework.

+++

Nothing much changes once Eliot and Margo know that she's bi. Given that she didn't know that they didn't know, she's not surprised by that. She thought maybe Eliot might have some biphobia with how weird things had suddenly been when she found out, but nothing changes except for the ways in which Eliot and Margo tease her, which suddenly grow to include girls as well as boys and magic and (sometimes) Fillory.

She likes the way they tease her. She's not sure if Eliot's new habit of always being around to walk with Quentin to classes and the library and insistence on making increasingly complicated cocktails for her counts as teasing, but she likes that, too.

To Margo's mostly-faked despair, Quentin decides that skincare is way too much work. She can't justify spending an hour on her face every day. Eliot listens to her passionate defense of washing her face in the shower and otherwise leaving it alone, nodding along. Quentin hasn't worked up the courage to deliver this rant directly to Margo yet, so it's just the two of them, walking back to the Cottage from the library.

"Fuck the patriarchy," Eliot says, when Quentin has paused for breath.

"And—" Quentin stops and takes that in. "Right. Fuck the patriarchy?" she adds. "Except mostly I'm just not up to spending that much time, I'm not judging people who do."

Eliot grins at her and nudges her shoulder. "I know, Coldwater."

"I like that there are different ways to be a girl," Quentin says. "I didn't used to think there were. But Jamie wasn't like me, or like most of the girls I knew before. And you and Margo and Penny are all totally different."

"I'm glad you realize I'm in a class of my own," Eliot says, looking down her nose at Quentin in a teasing reproduction of 'Eliot Waugh, master lesbian mixologist and king of the Physical Kids' that Quentin knows now isn't the real Eliot at all. Or at least, not the _whole_ real Eliot.

"Narcissist," Quentin says, laughing, and keeps walking.

Eliot follows her back to the Cottage, but before Quentin can escape to her room to study she grabs Quentin's hand. "Come read your books in my room," she says, her expression open and hopeful, bare in a way that makes Quentin almost uncomfortable to see.

"Okay," she says, and when she knocks on Eliot's door five minutes later with a stack of books, Eliot is lounging on her bed with a half-empty glass of something golden held languidly in one hand as she holds a library book with the other.

"Make yourself at home," she says, and sets the glass down on her bedside table.

Quentin finds a comfy spot on the end of the bed and starts going over the poppers she needs to memorize. Before she can do more than get started, Eliot gets up and starts pacing the room.

"Uh," Quentin says, but Eliot cuts off any further questioning.

"I've been hoping the subtlety thing might work, but it hasn't, and as Margo said yesterday, that's not really surprising, so I'm going to be very blunt, Q." She stops and faces the bed, then floats all of Quentin's books and papers out of her reach and settles them carefully on the floor.

She looks a little manic, but also somehow predatory, which doesn’t help Quentin's crush situation, but she tries to think back and figure out whatever she's been missing—nothing's changed recently, not really, nothing except—

Eliot pulls Quentin up off the bed and holds one of her hands, uses her free hand to push the hair off Quentin's face and caress her cheek. Time stops moving the normal way for Quentin and she can only watch Eliot, hypnotized and happy about it.

"You're adorable, and I like you, and now that I know there's a chance of success, I'm seducing you," Eliot announces grandly. "If you want me to," she adds more softly, and when Quentin gives a little nod, Eliot moves them closer together. Quentin can't tell if she's using magic or not; everything about Eliot is like a gravitational force anyway. Quentin wouldn't move away if she could.

"I'd like to hear it out loud if you can," Eliot whispers, their mouths only a fraction apart.

Quentin swallows. "Yes," she manages, then clears her throat and puts her hands on Eliot's waist, looking up at her face. "Seduce me, please."

Eliot doesn't hesitate, just pulls Quentin in all the way and kisses her, wet and open and perfect from the start.

Ten minutes later, Quentin is up against the bedroom wall, moaning and clutching as Eliot bites and licks down her jaw to her neck. Her breath keeps hitching, she can't keep quiet— 

"We can go slower," Eliot says, inexplicably taking her mouth off Quentin's neck and stepping back. Quentin groans in protest. "If you're not ready."

"I went to college," Quentin says, glaring at Eliot's reddened mouth and flushed cheeks, feeling the wet heat already pooling in her cunt. She wants more than this and Eliot doesn't need to baby her. "I've had sex before."

"My dear Q," Eliot says, or more like purrs, really, using her height to loom over Quentin and be unfairly hot, one hand tugging lightly on Quentin's hair and the other pressed against the wall behind Quentin's head. "You may have gone to college, but you haven't had sex with _me_ before."

"I may never get to have sex with you if you don't shut up and start undressing me," Quentin says grumpily, and enjoys the way her words make Eliot's eyes go wide for just a second. Jutting up her chin, she pulls Eliot's hand away from her hair and onto her hip, pushing it against the loose waistband of her leggings.

"I can take a hint," Eliot says, eyes darkening, and bends her head again, kissing Quentin roughly, pushing her hand underneath the leggings to grab at Quentin's hip. Quentin holds on and kisses back, looping her arms around Eliot's neck and reaching up on her tip-toes, trying to be closer. She wants to climb inside Eliot and never leave—or have Eliot inside her, a thought that derails all her higher brain functions as she feels Eliot's hand wrapped around her hip, how huge it is against her skin, imagines fingers pushing inside her—

"Where'd you go, baby?" Eliot whispers, pulling away from where Quentin's mouth has gone slack.

"Um," is all Quentin can manage for a moment. She disentangles herself from Eliot with great force of will and goes over to the bed, pulling a willing Eliot by the arm behind her. "Your fingers are kind of a lot," she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I want—I've wanted you to fuck me with them for a long time."

"Fucking christ," Eliot says, and does a complicated pulling and pushing maneuver that ends with Quentin flat on her back on the bed, chest heaving ridiculously. "You want my fingers, baby?"

"Yes," Quentin gasps, and helps as Eliot pulls down her leggings and underwear together, tossing them onto the floor. Her shirt and sports bra follow, and then she's naked in Eliot's bed, Eliot still wearing everything but her shoes, staring down at her with a hungry expression.

"No fair," Quentin manages, grabbing the edge of Eliot's vest and tugging. "I want boobs, too."

Eliot laughs and sits back on her knees between Quentin's thighs. She carefully takes off her vest, button-up, and tie, which takes roughly as long as an ice age.

Quentin pouts, but she really can't complain about the slow reveal of Eliot's creamy bare skin, her small, delicate-looking nipples, the temptingly soft swell of her stomach below her navel.

Eliot's clothes get folded and set on the dresser, which Quentin is not surprised by in the least.

"Are you done yet?" she asks, intentionally putting a whine into her voice as she watches Eliot take off her pants and set them aside.

The look she gets back, like Eliot is going to eat her alive and make her enjoy it, is exactly what she wants. Still wearing her black silk underwear, Eliot crawls back on top of Quentin on the bed.

"Sweetheart, I'm not anywhere close to finished," Eliot says, and starts kissing a path up Quentin's right leg, biting kisses up her thigh that Quentin hopes will leave marks. "Next time I'm going to just use my mouth, lick you until you're aching and hot and can't take it anymore and start begging me to make you come."

Eliot pauses then to move her hands in a series of unfamiliar tuts that settle a shimmering web around both of them for a few seconds. "But first, protection," she says, as the web disappears.

Quentin hasn't had sex since she found real magic and Eliot's display almost derails her into asking questions and wondering what else magic can do for sex, but Eliot quickly brings her back to the moment by kissing the crease where her thigh meets her hip.

"The things I want to do to you," Eliot says, and grins up at Quentin.

Quentin concentrates on breathing, watching Eliot staring at her cunt, hands pushing her thighs open. Nothing she's fantasized about has prepared her for this reality. She's already so wet, she needs Eliot so badly, and the dirty talk is _not helping_.

Eliot smiles at her again. "But this time—" she reaches up to press against Quentin's mouth with her first two fingers, urging her to open up. "—this time you get my fingers. Get me ready, Q."

It's really not necessary as prep, but Quentin licks and sucks for as long as Eliot lets her, whining a little when she pulls her fingers away.

"Watch," Eliot says, settles down between Quentin's thighs, and pushes a long finger into Quentin. Her cunt is aching to be fucked, slick starting to drip down her thighs. The pressure of Eliot's finger is exactly how she likes it, and Quentin starts moaning, moving her hips to match Eliot's rhythm.

"More," she demands. "I want more, please—"

Eliot adds two more fingers, suddenly filling Quentin up the way she needs, other hand pressing down on her hip to hold her still. "You're so wet," Eliot says. "You needed this, didn't you? I've got you, sweetheart, I've got you."

Quentin thrashes her head, unable to keep watching and breathe at the same time. She's trying to keep her hips still the way Eliot seems to want, but it's too much and she bucks up, raising her ass off the bed for a second.

"I'm going to have so much fun learning you," Eliot says, almost to herself, and uses her suddenly free hand to rub gently up Quentin's labia, lightly press against her clit.

Quentin shudders and opens her eyes. "I'm—I'm gonna come if you—oh, fuck, El!"

Eliot kisses her hipbone and starts coordinating the thrust of her fingers with the delicate pressure on Quentin's clit with her other hand. "Come whenever you want to, baby," she says. "We've got all night."

"This is—this is why dating leads to—oh god—leads to bad grades," Quentin manages, and Eliot's rhythm falters as she laughs in surprise.

"You adorable nerd," Eliot says, and gets back to work on Quentin's clit, pressing and rubbing in circles until her thighs involuntarily try to clench together as she starts to reach the tipping point.

"Hard—harder on my clit," she gasps, and Eliot obeys immediately, eyes wide and dark, hands moving smoothly together in unison over and in her body as she comes with an incoherent shout.

Still shaking, Quentin chases the aftershocks, holding her legs together, almost crushing Eliot's hands. Eliot doesn't let up or complain, just watches with a very self-satisfied gleam in her eyes

Once Quentin settles down, Eliot sits between her legs and pulls her wet fingers slowly out, bringing them to her mouth. She makes sure Quentin's watching before she licks them clean.

"You're evil," Quentin says, voice raspy and satisfied in a way she barely recognizes.

"You like it," Eliot whispers, then kisses her again, covering her whole body on the bed until they're pressed skin to skin almost everywhere.

"I do," Quentin admits in between kisses. She reaches to hold Eliot against her, giving her friction as they rub together. "I do."

+++

Margo walks into the room the next morning without knocking. Luckily, Quentin is wrapped up in blankets and tucked behind Eliot, so she's not naked, technically.

Unluckily, Margo is unrepentantly gleeful. She beams wickedly at them from the doorway before she shuts it behind her.

"Bambi, have mercy," Eliot says, sitting up bare-chested without concern, keeping Quentin from view. "Q is still an innocent."

Quentin lets out an indignant huff—she is not—but doesn't protest with words.

"After last night?" Margo says, lifting one eyebrow. "I don't think so. Anyway, you both owe me for refreshing the silencing wards on the door before anyone else noticed."

Margo shoves Eliot over on the bed and snuggles next to her. Eliot is running her hands through Quentin's hair, and really, Margo isn't that scary after she's talked you through a panic attack and shown you how to fix split ends with magic, so Quentin lets go of her death grip on the covers and makes room for Margo on the bed.

"I won't make El give me details right now," Margo says, ruffling Quentin's hair in between Eliot's fingers. "But I definitely demand girls nights on a regular basis without complaint to balance out all the banging I don't get to be a part of."

Eliot laughs. "Sounds fair," she says, and looks down at Quentin. "Q?"

Quentin considers. "Can I have more facials where I don't have to do any of the work?"

Margo lightly slaps Quentin's arm over the covers. "Yes, but only because you're so cute."

Eliot shakes hands with Margo, exuding a smug silence about everything that makes it clear she is very happy. Girls nights are not a hard price to pay for that, even if Quentin didn't enjoy them herself.

She's still not quite sure what they see in her, but that doesn't matter in the end, because she knows what she sees in them. They think she should be a part of their set, and she's going to keep taking them up on the offer.

Quentin closes her eyes and dozes against Eliot, feeling safe and at home listening to Margo and Eliot murmur above her.

+++

In the end, being with Eliot doesn't ruin Quentin's magical education, and also doesn't stop the teasing. Quentin's grateful on both counts. 

[the end.]

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're like me and get super into worldbuilding background details, in my mind, everyone in the main crew is a different gender except Margo and Kady. Margo is because her relationship with Eliot is really foundational and important to both Eliot's characterization and the story in general, and I felt that this girl version of Eliot would have a different and not quite right relationship with a man, even a queer man, than she would with Margo as a woman. Also, her name is hard to swap and I really wanted to focus on Quentin, Eliot, and Margo as girls together.
> 
> Kady is because I like the idea of her and Penny as hot lesbians, and not for any non-shallow reason XD
> 
> Fen is a super buff dude, Josh is still a dude because I want Margo to be happy, and Dean Fogg can now be played by Viola Davis.


End file.
